


There are no wolves in California

by Twist_Witch



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-05 20:05:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twist_Witch/pseuds/Twist_Witch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sheriff Stilinski knows that his son is hiding something but he refuses to let himself see it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There are no wolves in California

**Author's Note:**

> My very first Teen wolf fanfic! It takes place about a year after the first episode, so in other words, sometime during season three. I'm not sure what Stiles' father's name is but I heard somewhere that it was John so I went with that. If his name is something else, please let me know.

John Stilinski can see his son through the small opening where Stiles forgot to close the bathroom door all the way. They both forget about that sometimes and it never used to bother them but during the last year, he’s noticed a new awkwardness in Stiles that he at first assumed had something to do with being seventeen. Stiles closes doors behind him a lot more often than he used to and he covers up more of his body in long sleeves and baggy hoodies, but old habits still die hard and sometimes, Stiles forgets to close the door all the way. His son has grown at least four inches taller over the past year and shows no sign of stopping yet. The red hoodie that he’s taking off and throwing in the hamper is already too short in the sleeves and John makes a mental note to give Stiles money to buy a new one. When his son pulls off the T-shirt, he almost wants to close his eyes. Most of the time he can pretend not to see the bruises and the scars, most of the time he can pretend that the red stains that have ruined so many white T-shirts are only chili sauce from yet another one of Scott’s atrocious attempts at cooking. Most of the time he can pretend not to notice how often he needs to restock the first-aid kit. But right now, Stiles isn’t aware that he’s being watched and John can’t distract himself with coming up with some excuse to not watch, so the sight is inescapable. There’s gauze fastened with medical tape to Stiles’ shoulder and in the middle of the white fabric is an ugly red brown stain, as large as a handprint, a stain that is most definitely not chili sauce. The boy pulls it off in one fast rip, obviously having done this enough times to know that it would hurt more to peel it off slowly. The wound underneath it makes John gasp quietly. Four gashes, right across the left collarbone that can only have been made by something big with claws, possibly a bear. And the worst part isn’t that he’s seen similar injuries on his son before, it’s the fact that Stiles is lying to him. 

Hiding things. 

John isn’t stupid. That should really go without saying for a man who works as a sheriff but sometimes people, his son included, seem to think that all his investigation skills get left at the office when he changes out of his uniform or that they’re easily dissolved in an ounce of whiskey. But John Stilinski is a sheriff for a reason. He would never spy on his son but there are certain things he can’t help but notice, a pattern he doesn’t understand and doesn’t want to see. Sometimes he hears the sound of Stiles’ bedroom window opening and the sound of two people talking quietly. Sometimes when he wakes up in the middle of the night and stumbles to the bathroom, he’ll glance in through his son’s half open bedroom door and see the distinct shape of pillows and blankets stashed under the duvet to look like a sleeping body. It’s usually after nights like that that Stiles has new bruises and ruined shirts. He’s reluctant to admit it, but something about Stiles reminds John of his older brother after he came home from Vietnam back in the seventies. His brother was one of the lucky people who had not been completely traumatized by the things he’d had to see and do but there had been something new in his eyes, like a shadow, and a new awareness of everything around him as if he was always expecting an attack. It’s gotten better over the years but his brother will still doze off sometimes and wake up screaming. He knows that Stiles has nightmares too. The first time it happened it was understandable, it was a few nights after the one they’d spent in the police station with Scott and his mother, not knowing if they were going to make it out alive or not. That first night, Stiles let his father comfort him the way he did when his son was a little boy not so long ago but in all the nights that followed, Stiles turned away and shut his door and after a while, John stopped knocking. Stiles always walks around the house a few times before going to bed. He claims that the fresh air helps him sleep better and John chooses not to say anything when his son insists on his rounds even when there’s thunder right over the house which is something Stiles has always been afraid of. Sometimes he’ll walk over to the edge of the forest and talk for a while to someone who stays in the shadows.

In the bathroom, Stiles has finished cleaning the wounds and is rummaging around in one of the cupboards until he finds the dental floss and a small metallic object that turns out to be a needle. With practiced ease, he starts to stitch up the first wound and John makes a mental note to start boiling the dental floss regularly, just in case his son isn’t doing that already. Stiles grimaces slightly at the pain but keeps sewing until the skin is closed and then starts on the next one. For every passing day, it gets harder to deny what’s right in front of his eyes. His son is turning into a soldier. His son is turning into a soldier and where there are soldiers there is a war and where there is a war, there is an enemy. John Stilinski isn’t stupid. He knows that Stiles has secrets, more secrets than a normal seventeen year old boy would. He knows that it involves Scott and that Lahey kid and a few more kids from the Beacon Hills high school and he knows that somewhere in this, Derek Hale is involved. He used to think of Derek Hale with a mixture of pity and the wariness that came from knowing how easily someone with Hale’s background could fall into a criminal lifestyle. He was actually relieved when Scott and Stiles accused Hale of being a murderer because he’d had visions of how the two boys might want to hang out with the older cooler man who would perhaps drive them places in his too fast car and teach them how to smoke pot and rob convenience stores. The fact that they didn’t seem to like or trust him seemed like a blessing.

It’s different now though. First of all, they seem to be much more friendly with Hale these days even though Stiles claims not to know him that well. Secondly, he’s beginning to suspect that he has the other man to thank for his son’s life. There was that time, about two months ago when Stiles staggered in just as John was leaving for his night shift at the station and he almost decided to stay at home because at first glance, his son seemed drunk. He even forced Stiles to blow a puff of air into the breathalyzer, despite the boy’s slurred objections that he was fine and that it was just the flu. When it turned out that Stiles was completely sober, he let himself be reassured that everything was fine and that he should get to work and let Stiles sleep. As he got in his car, he looked up towards his son’s bedroom window and what he saw stayed with him for the rest of the night. Derek Hale was in there, pulling Stiles’ shirt off gently, careful not to touch any of the bleeding wounds that were all over his back. Even from a distance, he could see that his son was starting to have a panic attack and so could Hale apparently, because he put his hands on Stiles’ shoulders and seemed to be helping him with breathing exercises. John watched as the other man cleaned his son’s back and stitched the wounds, watched as he kept his hands on Stiles’ shoulders a moment longer than necessary and said something that earned him a tired grin. Watched him win what was obviously an argument about whether or not Stiles should go to bed and get some sleep. Watched him as he turned out the lights and sat at Stiles’ desk, apparently intending to stay and watch over the boy as he slept. Since that night, John can’t bring himself to distrust Derek Hale as much as he used to.   
He wouldn’t be a sheriff if he didn’t have certain instincts but lately, he seems to be having trouble with telling apart hunches and fantasies. He’s getting old, he supposes. He knows that there is something wrong in Beacon Hills these days and he knows that it started the night when he found Stiles in the woods, looking for the other half of Laura Hale’s body. He knows that this is all connected to the Hales and the Hale fire all those years ago. These, he’s pretty sure, are hunches, real ones that he can trust. What bothers him is the other things, the things that lurk at the edge of his conscious mind, the things that aren’t even remotely possible, the things that just don’t fit. There are the blue flowers that seem to be turning up everywhere around his son and his friends, monkshood, he thinks they’re called, there’s the little bottles of ash that he keeps finding in Stiles’ room and there is the way that Scott’s eyes seem to sometimes reflect the light in a way that turns them an almost glowing yellow. Most of all there is the sound he’s heard a few times on full moon nights, just as he’s been about to fall asleep. He doesn’t want to call it howling because it can’t possibly be howling, he’s been around enough police dogs to know what a howling dog sounds like and it doesn’t sound like that. The howling that haunts his dreams on full moon nights doesn’t sound like dogs howling and they’re the only creatures in Beacon Hills that could possibly be howling, he’s sure. 

There are no wolves in California. Everyone knows that.


End file.
